A Few Days of Change 11
by sarapals with past50
Summary: This one fills in a gap in our "A Few Days" stories, following Goodbye/Good Luck and what we did not see. Angst, sadness, depressing events that we decided to leave out of "A Few Days at a Time", only to start the new year with this one!
1. Chapter 1

_A/N: We finished our series and left out one significant event in the Las Vegas lives of our two favorite characters. We had it written, but our best reviewer said "not before Christmas" because this one is filled with angst, sadness, and depressing events. So—here it is in 2009! What a way to start a new year!_

_We do not own CSI, or CBS or these characters--we don't own much at all. _

**A Few Days of Change Chapter 1**

Sara sat in her car unable to press the "Start" button. She had left, leaving only a letter, riding in a taxi to the only home she could remember. Now, she leaned her head against the wheel—if she could sleep for only a short time—it would help her know what to do next. Sleep, she thought, had not come easily to her in days—weeks. She could not remember the last time she slept for more than a few hours. Exhaustion crept up her spine, across her shoulders, her eyes closed. The quiet garage, complete silence engulfed her brain as her hand fell away from the wheel and she finally slept.

Grissom read her letter three times before he moved. He opened his phone and pressed one. No answer as it rolled to voice mail. He pressed another number; no answer. He retraced his steps to the front desk.

"Judy, did you notice how Sara left?"

The woman shook her head. "I did not, but those guys might." She pointed to three uniformed men at the door.

He turned, asking the same question. One thought he remembered a taxi. Grissom hit one again on his phone, again no answer. He pressed two on the key pad and immediately got Catherine.

"Catherine, I need to leave for a while. Take care of things." He did not wait for an answer, cutting the connections, and pressing one, again getting no answer.

In his vehicle, he hesitated briefly—where could she have gone? Home—she had to be there. He broke several traffic laws as he drove. His phone rang—Catherine.

"What's going on?" She asked, adding, "Hodges."

"Not sure. I'm heading home. Sara—Sara's not—I don't know." He closed the phone as he pulled to the curb; using the front door was quicker than the garage, he ran up the stairs.

"Sara! Sara!" He shouted as the door opened. His voice was too harsh. He softened his voice as he called her name again. The dog met him. "Where is she?" He patted the dog and headed into the bedroom—no one; he checked the second bedroom—empty. He headed for the garage.

In the dim light, he could see her car and the slumped figure in the driver's seat. He had the door open, saying her name before he realized she was sleeping. He knelt beside her; his hand lightly touched her shoulder.

Her eyes flickered open; slowly, dazed, she raised her head. "Gil?" Her voice was a whisper, saying his name as a question. "I have to leave—I can't stay here." Her words stumbled and tumbled out.

"What's wrong, honey? Where are you going?"

When her eyes looked at him, he saw the desperate darkness of haunted eyes; the hopeless melancholy that had surrounded her for weeks etched into her face. Some instinct kept him from pulling her from the car—her eyes sunk into dark sockets, her skin almost transparent. If he had brought her into his arms, she would have shattered; he would have never let her go.

Instead, he offered his hand. A full minute passed before she put her own in his. Grissom stepped back and Sara came out of the car. Seconds passed before she moved closer and only then did he wrap an arm around her.

"Let me get you something to eat." It was the only words he could think to say that might get them inside the house. She nodded.

He got her into the kitchen, set water on to heat, and guided her into the bedroom. "Sit while I get tea."

Sara sat and before he was out of the room, Hank joined her on the bed. It took a few minutes to make tea, find cookies, but she remained unmoved, staring into space when he returned.

"I can't stay, Gil," she said, her words mumbled, little more than a whisper. Her eyes were glazed as if she were in a daydream.

When she did not take the cup, he held it to her lips. "You don't have to stay, honey." Her trembling hand covered his as she sipped tea. He broke a cookie and placed a piece in her mouth. "Where will you go?"

She shook her head. "I need to leave." She finally looked at him, her eyes filled with tears. "I don't know—I can't stay here—not now."


	2. Chapter 2

**A Few Days of Change Chapter 2**

Grissom sat the cup aside and took her into his arms. "It's okay. We will work it out." He held her until he felt her relax against his chest and soft, regular breathing indicated she was asleep.

As he removed her shoes and jacket, she woke briefly. "Sleep with me, please." He tucked a blanket around both of them and stayed until she slept.

His phone had pulsed half a dozen times since he left work. He quietly checked the calls—Catherine, Brass, and one from Ecklie. He called Doc Robbins, ignored the others, and after a short conversation, settled back to wait. His hand covered Sara's. No one in his life had ever meant more to him than this woman. Today, in a very short time, he realized how deeply he cared, how often work kept him from her. He was allowing the minuscule details of work to take over his life. It had been weeks since she had been kidnapped, changed shifts, lost her long-term co-workers, and, he was gone more than he was with her. She had needed him and he was not paying attention.

A sound escaped her lips—a moan, a cry made by a frightened child. Her eyes opened and he recognized the dazed, confused look of sadness and despair. How did this happened, he thought. He determined in a flash to do all he could to make things "right".

In a breath, she whispered, "Gil."

His hand moved to her face. "I'm here, Sara." He reached for the cool tea and offered it to her. She gulped it down, sank back into the pillow, and closed her eyes. In seconds, she was asleep again.

Grissom's phone rattled and he checked the caller. He answered. Doc Robbins was at his door.

..._It was a dream. Grissom was kneeling beside her car, saying her name. She dream-walked with him into the house and into the bedroom. She was dreaming when he brought her tea, walking in sunshine but not the bright harsh sun of Vegas. This sun was shaded and cool and some place where it was quiet, soothing, comforting. Grissom put a cup in her hand and brought her out of the dream. _

_He held her until she returned to her sunlit dream. It didn't last. It never did. Her dream moved from a peaceful place to one of darkness, confused shouting, sudden uneasy silence, isolation, and she cried out loud. Sara wanted to smile when she saw Grissom; she drank tea and fell back into bed. She tried to tell him something when she felt his hand on her face, but her dream of sunshine returned—the good dream, at least for a while…_

Grissom brought Dr. Robbins into the bedroom, got him a chair while he paced. The physician gently placed a hand on Sara's face and brushed her hair back.

"You know this is completely out of my training, but basic medicine says she needs rest." He checked her pulse almost out of habit. "Did she finish her counseling sessions?"

"I don't know—I think she did." Grissom wiped his hand across his face as his habit when frustration came to the surface. "I know she hasn't been sleeping; she hasn't been eating enough. She's working too much."

Dr. Robbins reached into his pocket for several small packets. "I got advice from a colleague. These will help her sleep, no more than three in twenty-four hours. If she will take one, get some rest, stay away from work for a while."

…_Dreams returned—pain delivered as a back-handed slap, pain from a broken bone, blackness of hiding in a closet that became a car trunk. Rain at a funeral with few people standing in a huddle. Rain changed to a flood coming into her mouth. She tried to speak but it became a cry. Struggling to open her eyes, she felt a smooth hand on her face… _


	3. Chapter 3

**A Few Days of Change Chapter 3**

He was saying her name.

"Gil."

"It's okay. It's a dream."

She slowly focused her eyes. "I'm sorry. You need to sleep. I didn't mean to wake you."

Too many times he had let her sleep alone in the second bedroom. His suspicions that she was not sleeping as much as she pretended were right.

"I'm fine." He held her close. "Can I get you something to eat?"

Her head shook against his chest. "I'll get something to drink," he said.

After Doc Robbins left, in the hour or so she slept, he had learned about Hannah and her brother, the domestic stabbing case, the double shifts, even Ecklie had agreed to extended leave. Sara needed a rest; an accumulation of events had sapped her strength, her ability to work, to reason. The reptilian fight-or-flight function had taken over. She needed a change.

He was cutting fruit when she joined him in the kitchen. She had changed her clothes, pulled her hair back, but her eyes were sunk in dark hollows, her face pale. She appeared to have lost ten pounds in a few hours.

He pushed a stool toward her and placed juice in her hand. "We need to eat," he said, indicating fruit and cheese. She nodded her head. He added crackers to the plate, reached in the refrigerator for yogurt. "Let's go back to bed; we can eat there."

She followed and in a familiar, easy fashion, both settled back in bed with food between them. Grissom handed a few treats to Hank as they ate.

"You are too good to me," were the first words she spoke.

"No, I'm not." He wanted to say more, but how does one explain negligence.

Sara had not eaten three bites when she leaned back into her pillow. "I'm so tired, Gil, as tired as I've ever been. I can't do this any more." Her voice broke and she turned her head into the pillow, and for the first time, she cried.

She had not cried when she was kidnapped or when she walked in the desert, or when she changed shift, or when he left her for New York City, or when she testified at Natalie's hearing. He moved the plate and reached for her.

…_In his arms she was safe. She felt his hands wrap around her, his lips touched her hair, his breathe warmed her skin. It had been her secret—her nightmare, her terror—that he would no longer love her if she was imperfect, or broken, or weak. She could not do what he did. She could not leave victims, the innocent behind. They became the ghosts of her own history—never leaving but playing over and over in her life. Her father became the dead; her mother morphed between victim and offender; and she was a child again, trying to be peacemaker, counselor, mediator, fighter. She could no longer live with these ghosts of her own making._

_If he never let her go, she would be safe. She must leave him to keep him. For a while, for a place unlike this hot, dry desert she called home._

_She heard him say her name again and again until his voice became a song and her tears dried on his shirt. She heard his words when he said, "I love you, Sara. We can get through this, whatever you need to do, wherever you need to go."_

_With his words, she began to regain her strength. He did not ask for an explanation; she could not have given one. _

While she ate, he showed her the pills for sleep left by Doc Robbins. Rest, she needed rest and sleep, everything else could be worked out. She finally agreed to take one-half of the small sleeping pill but only after he wrapped his arms around her as one does a small child. He quietly talked about simple things, remembering his visits to San Francisco to see her nearly a decade earlier, the small apartment where she lived, visiting her mother. He did not talk about death, dying, violence, or the personal tragedies of the past few months.

At last Sara slept with no dreams waking her, and within minutes, Grissom followed.

She woke first, as she usually did, but with arms and legs encircling her own, there was no way for her to secretly slip from bed. His eyes opened immediately when she moved.

"Hey," he said. "Stay here with me."

She stayed. He reached for a book beside the bed. It had been months since he had read to her yet he flipped to a marked page. He knew she smiled as she placed her head in that spot where his arm met his shoulder.

"You've always fit right here."

"I've always known this place was made for me." Her hand played across his chest. "I need to leave, Gil. I need to go some place to clear my mind—to see if I can think again."

He had hoped she would change her mind with a few hours of sleep. "Where do you want to go?" When she did not reply, he asked, "Would you let me go with you?"

Her fingers worked around the buttons on his shirt; he kept one arm securely around her. He felt her sigh. "Its okay, Sara. I understand the need to leave."

"It's not you. It's me."

They remained quiet for several minutes. Sara said, "I never had a home, Gil. Not until here with you. And now I need to leave you. I need to leave this place before I completely fall apart. I need to breathe—and I need to—I need to do it for me." She stopped talking and turned to face him, lifting her head so she could see his face.

"I don't want to do this—this work any more. I want out of it. I'm so tired I can't sleep, I can't eat, I can't work. I'm exhausted." Both were quiet for a while; neither making a move to change positions.

Sara sighed again and began to talk. "When I was young, I wrote things down—lists of what I would do as a grown up, names of places I would go, books I would read. Of course, all my writings were lost or thrown away. When there is no home, no parent to keep childhood treasures, they cease to exist. It was a way to deal with the loneliness—I never called it that. In college, I learned to say I kept a journal. It sounded exotic and worldly when it was really the same things I had always written. Some times, writing worked out a problem; to see a problem on paper, to read it again, brought a solution. I need to go where I can think—just sit and think for awhile. Maybe write lists again or, at least write to clear my mind." She paused for a few minutes before continuing. "Maybe writing will help me clear all the cobwebs and ghosts."

"I want you to be safe, Sara. I want you happy again." He made no demands; he asked no more questions.

Before closing their eyes again, her hands moved across his body; her lips found his. She said she loved him. Neither said these words often and tonight the words took on a deeper meaning. She was physically and emotionally frail and dangerously near a complete collapse. Yet, when he tried to slow her passion, she furiously came to him, removing his shirt, lightly running long fingers along sensitive places only she found. When he moaned, she smiled; her sadness and despair forgotten, almost, for a short time.

Grissom knew he would miss this—the emotional connection they had built, not just the physical action of making love, but the way she knew his needs, his thoughts, often before he knew them. If she stayed away for a week, he could work; if she stayed away for a month, he thought he might go mad. He mentally slapped himself when he realized how much she did for him, how much she had always done for him.

_A/N: Okay, if you are reading, leave us a message! The "count" mechanism is broken so we don't know if two people or twenty people are reading! Just post "keep going"--that's all! Thanks so much!!_


	4. Chapter 4

**A Few Days of Change Chapter 4**

In her sleep, she mumbled and frowned. He whispered her name and folded arms around her as she returned to the dreamless bliss of releasing her grip on the dark and perplexing world outside the warmth of blankets, of this room, and the touch of her lover.

…_Sara woke before he did. She had done this for so long that for a minute she thought everything was normal. Until she sat up and she could barely breathe, barely get herself out of bed, and away from the man who slept beside her. The crushing weightless dread of another day in Las Vegas was almost more than she could imagine—she had to leave, find a place without crime and noise and artificial lights and constant change; a place where she could think and rest and sleep. _

_Almost without realizing what she was doing, she dialed a number, knowing someone would be awake, someone would answer the phone, and someone would tell her to come. Where things changed slowly, where there was order in predictable living, where life was slower, and there was shade from trees, and the smell of flowers and fruits. It was just as she knew it would be—come, stay, as long as you want. _

_She found a seat on an airline leaving later in the day. She had a place to go, a safe place, where people knew her, where her mother lived, where the quiet life of women would help her think, where she could bury ghosts and clear cobwebs…_

Grissom found her repacking a small bag, a carry-on size, and another tote. Her appearance was one of drained exhaustion, dark circles under her eyes, her pale face drained of color except for her dark eyes. Her actions were confused, placing one item in a bag, taking it out to join a discarded stack, pulling something else out of a drawer only to place it in the pile beside her bag. As a storm tossed tide, he thought. He watched for several minutes before he came to her side.

"Let me help." He took jeans and folded two pair together. "Sara, where are you going?" He refolded two shirts and placed them in the bag with the jeans.

She took his hand and sat on the bed. "I—I'm going to see my mother."

For the first time in twenty-four hours, Grissom knew his pulse returned to normal. She would be safe; she would be surrounded by a welcoming group in a calm, peaceful place. He knelt to face her. "I'll take you—I'll drive you there—let me call in."

"No," she shook her head. "I need to go. I have a ticket to fly. And a rental car." Her hands cradled his face and she sweetly kissed his forehead, then his eyes, his nose, and ended with his mouth. "I need to do this, get away for a while, see if I can patch some holes in my own life, make myself whole again." She sighed deeply keeping his head in her hands. "I might get my mother to talk about us before—before my father died."

He packed for her while she sat on the bed. Not much, not enough to even miss from her closet. He put liquids in a small plastic bag and added it to the tote. He found the packets of sleeping pills, put them in another bag, and wrote Doc Robbins directions on the outside of the bag. He placed two books in her bag. Over the years, Sara had left an untold number of books, sent a dozen magazine subscriptions to her mother, but she would want her favorites.

"I'll come in a week," he said. She nodded agreement.

Late in the afternoon, it was a pale, exhausted, and vulnerable woman he put on a plane to San Francisco. "Call as soon as you land. Please," he asked.

In one week, if she decided to stay, he would drive her car to her. A week, seven days and nights without Sara—he stood in the airport and realized how she must have felt when he left for his sabbatical—except he left her standing in the lab locker room, afraid to touch her, afraid to let anyone see his turmoil, knowing she would patiently wait for him.

Grissom watched until she was out of sight, then walked to the window and pressed his hand against the glass. She had said, while he drove to the airport, "You are my life, Gil. Your generous heart, your wonderful probing mind—please forgive me for not—for being weak and needy and selfish."

With his words, he tried to assure her she was none of these things. He extracted promises to call, to eat, to sleep, to rest, to drive carefully as they walked through the airport. He asked for special handling at security that moved both to the front of the line and let him walk to the gate.

Grissom did one thing out of character before he headed to work. He made one phone call, talked to one woman at Sara's destination, and gave a brief explanation of his concerns. The woman, Sister Deborah, now the community leader of the religious order where Laura Sidle lived, gave a promise—Sara would be cared for, she would find peace, and her ghosts would fade, if not vanish. In the hands of these dedicated and kind women, Sara would recover; he was certain.

…_Sara called as soon as the plane landed in the late fall dusk of San Francisco. In the rental car, she called Grissom again to say she was on her way to the community farm where her mother had lived for years and promised to call again as soon as she arrived._

_The rain began as she crossed the bridge; not a gentle spring rain, but a torrential storm that blew in from the Pacific, streaming water in great wind gusts making windshield wipers almost useless. Twice Sara almost stopped but kept going because she knew where she needed to be—the women expected her tonight._

_Finally, she made the last turn into the long driveway which had changed so little from her first visit. A gentle rise before the lane descended blocked the house from her view but in seconds, she saw lights; not a small porch light, but what appeared to be every light inside and outside the house glowed in the rain-darkened night. Before she stopped the car, the front door opened and figures appeared on the porch. The wind made umbrellas useless, and knowing this, they were covered in rain slickers and ponchos, bringing one to her before she could open the car door. She stumbled getting out and strong hands steadied her as other hands reached for her two bags. The women were always quiet, even in conversations, and tonight was no different. _

_One woman, Sara knew it was Sister Deborah's voice, said, "Welcome, child. You have a home here for as long as you desire." _

_She was inside, dry and warm, with gentle faces surrounding her, wiping her face with a towel, removing her shoes even as she protested, and placing a cup of hot liquid in her hands. _


	5. Chapter 5

**A Few Days of Change Chapter 5**

"_You've come on the wings of a storm!" Sister Deborah exclaimed as she pulled her own slicker off. "It's always good to have you here, Sara. And you've come to stay for a while—we've wanted this for years!"_

_Sara's mother made a slow move to her daughter's side. The two had never been close as mother-daughter, but over time they had become good friends. Every person in the room knew it took time for their relationship to re-establish itself and they quietly withdrew, leaving Sister Deborah with them. _

"_Are you hungry? Of course you are—we have food ready." The nun left and Sara's eyes followed her before returning to her mother. _

"_I'm so tired, Mom. I'm not sure I can swallow food." Sara said. _

_Her mother was a woman of few words. She wrapped a shawl around Sara's shoulders and guided her into the kitchen. Sister Deborah had set a place with a bowl of soup and bread. Sara managed to spoon several mouthfuls before sinking back into her chair, exhausted, unable to eat. The women recognized her fatigue and quickly moved to get her to a bedroom. In her bag, they found pajamas and, as they had done when caring for those who can not help themselves, they prepared her for bed. By the time they tucked her into a small bed in a stark room with it's only decoration a small cross on one wall, Sara was asleep—or almost. She heard the wind and rain outside her window, but she could not hear the cell phone as it rang in the rental car…_

By the time Grissom arrived at work, he knew putting Sara on a plane to San Francisco was unwise but she was determined to go. He went through the motions of work ignoring comments and questions about Sara or giving a terse response before walking away. Two short phone calls helped but as hours passed and he got no third phone call, he paced the lab and repeatedly called her phone.

Finally, he called the number for the farm. A sleepy voice answered and confirmed Sara was sleeping, as was everyone else in the house. The nameless woman said a big storm had rolled in and they had almost given up on Sara when she arrived. She continued to talk when she recognized the caller, providing Grissom with updates on the farm, the weather, quietly laughing at her own joke. As he listened to her voice, soft and soothing, he knew Sara was in the right place. This community of women would provide a sanctuary for regaining strength; Sara would recover her lost self.

…The storm continued for three days. The community members had chores that must be done even in the rain but most of the time, they spent in the kitchen—sixteen middle-aged and older women, cooking, eating, and cleaning in a routine that was their lives. At least twice a day, the group gathered in the small chapel for prayer and mediation.

Sara stayed in her room. The first morning she slept until noon and stayed wrapped in a quilt until a soft knock brought her mother inside the room with a cup of soup and fruit. She ate little, too little, her mother reported back in the kitchen, like a sick kitten. The cooks turned back to their work, muttering quiet comments about why people could not eat, and set about stirring up more food for their visitor.

By noon of her second day, she had eaten even less, slept longer, and stayed in her room watching rain stream down the window. She could see the sodden orchard merging into a thick wall of mist-fog. She wanted no contact, just black, dreamless sleep she got by taking one of the pills in the plastic bag; taking two a day gave her rest in the arms of Morpheus. A brisk knock and the door opened for Sister Deborah, bringing in a tray of food, cheeses, apples, and sweets.

She had been the constant contact for Sara since Laura Sidle decided to live with the religious community of women. Her gregarious personality had made her the social director, the spokesperson, the leader for years before she assumed the official duty of mother superior. She knew the history of mother and daughter; she also knew from Grissom the recent events that led to Sara's arrival.

Nothing of her appearance indicated this woman was the community's leader, and, except for the cross around her neck, nothing would show to the world she was a member of a religious order. Sara had always liked her—even when, as a daughter, she was unsure of why her mother wanted to live with these quiet women in this isolated area.

"Sara, you need to eat." The tray was placed on the bed. Sister Deborah reached into Sara's bag and brought out clothes. She had seen similar situations when others had come into this house. "I'll sit with you while you eat then you can bathe and change."

Specific directions—often what the confused, the lost, the depressed needed most was work; the hands on, simple duties of seeing something finished. And this farm had lots of those jobs, even in the rain.

Sister Deborah said, "We can walk to the barn, check on our cows—we have three now, and a new calf." She placed cheese in Sara's hand. "That's our own cheese, probably not the best you've ever eaten, but it is good." As soon as the cheese disappeared, she placed an apple in Sara's hand.

Sara ate. It was easier to do as told than refuse and when the food was eaten, she picked up her clothes and went to shower and dress. Her mind barely functioned. She knew where she was, she knew she had slept and for the first time in days, she felt rested. Sister Deborah handed thick socks to her as she came out of the common bathroom.

"We have boots on the back porch."

Sara followed. She put her feet inside big rubber boots and her arms in a hooded rain slicker. People talked around her; someone handed her a basket and said "for eggs."

The weather met the two women intent on breaking and overpowering the two figures that bent to run along a muddy path to the barn. Wind slapped against the plastic overcoats and mud splashed high on the boots. A strong gust grabbed the basket from Sara's hand and sent it sailing across the yard. She ran after it.

"Leave it! We'll find it later." Sister Deborah called, but Sara managed to snatch the basket and ran faster to the barn.

Inside the barn, both women leaned against the wall before removing their rain gear. Sara smiled. The older nun helped her with the oversized raincoat and removed her own.

"We look like a couple of drowned rats." Sister Deborah laughed as she hung coats on a hook. She waved to an enclosed area behind Sara. "Check for eggs while I check the cows."

The smells inside the barn were those of living, breathing, warm animals; cats circled their feet as Sister Deborah talked. Chickens made chattering sounds and scattered as Sara opened a wire door and stepped inside their coop. Her hands slipped into boxes to collect eggs—obviously rain did not hamper egg production. In a few minutes she had a dozen eggs in her basket. She could hear Sister Deborah singing and found her a few minutes later, pitching fresh hay in to each cow stall.

"I'll help." Sara said as she lifted a pitchfork from a rack.

Sister Deborah nodded and kept singing as she worked. Together, the two women cleaned each area and added new hay. They poured a mixture of grain pellets into each feeding tray, fed an assortment of other animals in the same way, until a physically tired Sara asked for a break.

"I need to sit down," she said.


	6. Chapter 6

**A Few Days of Change Chapter 6**

The older woman slid a barn stool in her direction. She chuckled. "I forgot—you haven't eaten much in twenty-four hours." She disappeared for a minute and when she returned, she brought a very young calf with her. "Pet this baby—we're going to keep her so she needs to get attached to us."

For the first time since she arrived, Sara smiled. Starting as a tentative line across her face, it turned up, and as the calf nuzzled against her hand, the smile became the broad face changing one so familiar to others. Sister Deborah watched and pulled another stool near.

"She doesn't have a name yet." There was light in the dark eyes that met. "Why don't you name her?"

Sara sighed. "I've never named anything before—not even our dog." Sister Deborah laughed; she had met Hank, the boxer, when Grissom and Sara visited the farm last year.

"Well, name this calf. We have Bessie, of course, and Spots—that's her mother." The older woman turned to point at the brown cow. "And that one's Cocoa—we get real original with names, so try to follow those guidelines." She laughed again and Sara laughed with her.

Sara could not remember the last time she laughed. The thought stopped her and brought a sudden choking sound to her throat.

Sister Deborah's hand covered hers. "It's okay, Sara. I know you've come here to get away—I know you've recently had more trauma and stress than anyone should have to endure. Stay as long as you want—but you have to work every day. I'm no psychiatrist and if you decide you need one, we can find one. But sometimes, what one needs is simple, physical work. We have plenty of that." She smiled. "You'll get better every day."

Sara's eyes filled with tears, but a few deep breaths and a quick brush of her hand stopped her from crying. "Thanks."

They wrapped up against the rain, Sara tightly held the egg basket, and they ran back to the house. Entering the kitchen, Sara smiled. The lights were brighter, the baking bread smelled better, and the women's voices sounded of soft laughter and comfort. Sara handed over the eggs and went to find her mother.

It rained for two more days. Inside the house, Sara was included in housework—laundry, cleaning the bathrooms, preparing food. One of the older women gave her a pair of scissors and showed her how to cut fabric for a quilt being sewn. She went to the barn at least twice a day trying out names for the calf until everyone was laughing when she announced her choice of "Sunday".

"Sunday was the day I arrived," she explained. "I guess I should name her Monday—the day I met her—or was it Tuesday?" She laughed with them and the calf was called "Sunday".

Another day passed and she grew stronger, and when Grissom called the house phone, she remembered her cell phone in the car. She laughed about it, and Grissom knew she was better. He promised to come, driving her car, as soon as he could—a few days.

The weather cleared and coats and boots were put away. Sara worked in the barn finding the physical work did clear her mind. Moving hay and grain and animals gave her mind a rest. The others talked to her constantly— not the rapid chatter of idle words, but about the routine of farm life, the gardening process, the vegetables and fruits they sold, and the hundreds of other topics that came into their conversations as they worked side-by-side. It surprised Sara—she enjoyed hearing the women talk. They asked no questions about why she arrived. It was as though she had blown in with the storm seeking shelter and they were too polite to ask about her life for fear of awakening another storm.

Only when the women entered their chapel did they leave Sara alone. Occasionally, she went to the chapel, but not every day; she had no interest in religion. Instead, she found solitude and a gradual calmness in the shelter of a big tree in the yard. Someone had hung an old swing, a porch type bench swing, from a low limb, and she found she could drape her legs over one end, lay her head on the seat, and touch the ground with one hand to move the swing. Here she found a cool, shaded place to think—one afternoon she realized this place had been in her dreams, the good dreams. She kept swinging, watching the leaves move above her place…


	7. Chapter 7

**A Few Days of Change Chapter 7**

Grissom left Las Vegas before dawn driving Sara's car, leaving Hank with the sitter. Ten hours if no delays and he would be at the farm. They had talked every day and each day, he knew she was stronger, she was better. He heard her laugh—she had named a cow, she had cleaned a barn, and fed chickens. He knew he heard her giggle as she related her experience with sewing—he knew Sara could barely sew on a button and someone had given her cloth and scissors. He laughed at the image.

Ten hours and ten days. Each hour he relived a day without Sara. His frantic attempts to call her cell phone the first day she left until he called the farmhouse. The second day he called again to learn she was sleeping. On the third day, he finally heard her voice; depression and weariness coming into his ear. By the fifth or six day, he knew she was better. She actually called him that day and told him about the calf. He knew she was smiling again. She knew he was coming.

His arrival was the opposite of Sara's. The sun was shining on new houses in suburban developments that looked like every big city in America. An abrupt line divided farmland from encroaching residential environs—it would not be long until the rural land was overrun with cookie cut McMansions, he thought. He made his last turn onto a farm road that had no middle dividing line. The recent rain had brought a lush green growth to the roadside and he slowed to find the mailbox.

Mid-afternoon brought stillness to farm life. Grissom stopped the car for a brief minute as he looked over the garden, the barn and pasture, and the house. Nothing moved; puzzled until he remembered the afternoon prayer time. The car coasted quietly into the parking area, gravel crunching underneath creating an irritating break in the quiet.

Grissom stretched his stiff legs and started toward the house, changed his mind and walked around the house to the back yard. He saw Sara in the swing, a stick in one hand that she used to push herself in her reclining position. His footsteps in the grass made no noise and he was almost in the shade of the tree before her head turned.

"Grissom." She said his name on a whisper, a dream-like sound. She sat up seeing the person she had been day dreaming off within a few feet of the swing; the sun light putting him in a dim outline from head to toe. "Grissom." She said again.

He stopped, suddenly unsure of his approach. She had been excited that he was coming, but now that he was here, would she be her old self or the sad and depressed woman he had put on the plane. In a flash he had his answer. She was out of the swing and in his arms, kissing him, putting her body next to his and pulling him to her. He smiled as he returned her embrace and her kisses. His hands found her hair, curls instead of the former straighten locks.

"I like your hair."

"I smell like the barn—you are early."

"You smell wonderful."

"You look good—great." Sara said as her hands ran through his hair. "Thank you for coming—for everything."

He held her at arms length. "You look good." Still too thin, he thought; her eyes still deep hollows, bones showed sharp edges of her frame. "You look good." He pulled her back into his arms. He wanted to believe she was better; he dared not ask.

They sat on the swing as one, his arm around her shoulder, her hands wrapped around his, her head against his chest. It was good to be with her, he thought.

"It's good to have you here," Sara said. They sat in silence; the chains of the swing creaking as they moved back and forth. "This is where I think best."

"Mmmm—and what do you think about, dear." Grissom felt her silent laugh. She had curled against him with her knees brought to rest against his thigh.

"Global warming."

"Okay."

Sara had taken his hand again and played with his fingers. "I think about us, too, what I should do, but I try not to dwell on that for too long. Then there is always work to do and I stop thinking for a while." She kept his hand and brought it to her lips. "I miss you, but I—I'm not ready to leave this place."

He hugged her tighter. "You don't have to leave, Sara. Stay until you are ready to leave," he laughed before he added, "That is as long as this group will let you stay."

They knew what Sara thought of religious groups in general. She had spoken many monologues over the years about her beliefs, including some about this place her mother called home. Gradually, she had learned to like the women of this community, and like today, she ignored their devotion to prayer and mediation.

"I got us a room for tonight—I don't believe a man has ever spent one night here." This time she laughed. "Even the animals are females." She stood. "Let's go visit the cows and you can meet Sunday. She's so cute." She never let go of his hand. "And there is something else I want you to do—I don't think I can do it alone."

Sara introduced Grissom to Sunday, the calf, and the three cows, to two goats that followed them around the pasture, and showed him the gardens and fruit trees. She had lost the agitated, hurried way of talking she had used for months. By the time they reached the house, the women were waiting, trying to disguise their eagerness to be part of his welcome. Grissom knew how to charm and he smiled, shook hands, asked polite questions, and his ease with the group made it seem he had visited yesterday instead of eight or nine months ago. As always, he gave extra attention to Sara's mother who was often the last to greet him; not because she did not like him, but because it was her timid and hesitant manner.

Cake slices were passed along with coffee. The women laughed as Grissom described meeting the calf and the goats, and how the cows ignored him. Another hour passed before the group broke up to began the evening meal, to take care of animals, and Grissom found himself with the two Sidle women. He had an idea this grouping had been carefully and quietly arranged as the three walked among the fruit trees. Minutes passed as the three conversed about generalities—weather, his drive, the farm.

It was Sara who asked a question. "We want to go to the cemetery, Gil." She held his hand as she asked. "Will you go with us? Tomorrow?"

Grissom knew these words had been difficult for Sara. He could only imagine the conversation between mother and daughter which resulted in Sara's question. His answer was obvious, "Of course." He kept his voice soft and saw the smile on one face reflected in the similar face of the other. "Of course."


	8. Chapter 8

**A Few Days of Change Chapter 8**

Sara and Grissom left before dinner. She packed what she needed in her tote, promised the women they would return in time for lunch and to pick up Laura.

Sister Deborah had managed a few hushed words with Grissom and hugged both as they left. "Tomorrow—enjoy your night!" She shouted as they closed car doors and the others laughed behind cupped hands as the couple drove away.

"You okay?" he asked.

"Yeah." She had taken his hand again. "Thanks so much for coming."

They had stayed at the nearest highway motel on numerous occasions. Grissom complained about the beds, but they returned to the double-bed with coffee pot and mini-refrigerator standard room each time they visited Sara's mother. It was easier than driving an additional twenty miles to another roadside motel. The "standard room" comment had been their private joke for years, not sure the place had any other kind.

"I brought your other things," said Grissom. She had asked for more clothes, her boots, a few books, and a photograph she had beside her bed.

Sara tried to say something several times before they reached the motel, finally, arranging her thoughts into words as the car came to a stop. "I can't go back, Gil. I am better—but I can't go back." She sucked in air before continuing, "I just can't—not yet. I want to talk to my mom and it's so difficult." Her eyes were pools of melted chocolate.

Grissom heard the trembling in her voice. "Its okay, Sara. I know you're not ready to return—that's fine." He indicated the motel and gave a quick finger point to her. "Are you okay with this?" His eyebrow shot upwards.

His look and gesture caused her to giggle. "Yes! I may be burned out but I'm not ready to be a nun!"

He could not get her into a room fast enough. They had to wait while the desk manager looked up their reservation form and took his time running a credit card and wanted to tell them about local tourist spots. While Grissom fidgeted, Sara's warm hand played along his spine. He thought he might explode if the guy did not hand over the room key—soon.

The room was cool and dark and Grissom had not slept in twenty-four hours, but he did not care.

"Quick shower, Gil. I smell like a cow!"

He grabbed her and they tumbled onto a bed in the elation of desire. His hands pushed her shirt upwards. She stripped him of shirt and pants, pushed him onto the bed face up as she straddled him and removed her own clothes. Bed coverings were pushed aside, and the faint smell of bleach met their noses for a few seconds—until he smelled her hair, that faint odor of citrus and some flower filling his nose, a fragrance he would know until he died as one belonging to Sara.

Sara mumbled again that she must smell of the barn and cows and when she heard his deep chuckle, she knew it did not matter. His hands touched her pale body as dappled light came from the carelessly drawn blinds. They made slow love in the familiarity of long time lovers who knew and took delight in each other; speaking few words but communicating with eyes and kisses and touches. They no longer felt like star-crossed lovers and had managed to avoid many pitfalls of married couples. They had lived together long enough to know love was always love, anytime, any place.

Afterwards, in the time Sara called the most intimate act of love, they talked of good memories of the past, saying nothing of the near or distance future. Sara finally let him sleep, his warm breath against her breast, his curled hair tickling her chin. She loved him more than life itself; she wanted to please him, to make him happy, to live with him until both were old and dying. She closed her eyes and dozed in a dreamless nap.

When she slept, Grissom woke and got in the shower. He leaned against the wall and vented anger, frustration, and pain—emotions he would never show to anyone. He had no answers to the why or how this had happened to the woman he loved. She was a shadow of her old self; it would take weeks, or months, before she regained her old confidence, her quick smile, and soft curves. He wanted her with him and this was part of his anger, his frustrations. He had to let her recover in her own way—he would overpower her, suffocate her ability to work through this trauma. They had ignored her past for too long and now, she and her mother seemed ready to take a tentative step with a visit to a cemetery.

He heard the bathroom door open and then the shower curtain moved; a dark head appeared.

"Can I join you?" She asked.

Grissom made noises that brought her into the tub with him. She joined him with a playful response and he pushed aside his heated emotions and reacted in the same way. Naked, in the light of the bathroom, he could see how thin Sara had become; how had she lost so much weight, he thought; of course, this was only one of a dozen questions he had asked himself in the past ten days.

Soap and shampoo, wet kisses and slippery hands led to more passionate sensations so they were quickly out of the bathroom and back to the bed. This time, Grissom was in charge of how emotions and passions played; he touched her, kissed her, held her until she cried out and smiled with sparkling eyes. When he knew she had edged to that whirlpool of sexual release, he pushed his own body to that same place, joined her as rhythmic waves engulfed both. He heard her quiet gasp and air escaped his own lungs. She moved to keep him with her as his lips sought hers.

Sara was the first to speak, keeping him wrapped in legs and arms. "This is it, Gil."

His mumbled voice came against her shoulder. "It—is that all you can say after you've taken advantage of me, lured me to California, dragged me from my shower, kept me from sleeping—and you call this 'it'?" He kissed her where his lips met her skin and moved along her shoulder to her neck, her chin, before finding her mouth.

He said, as his hands raked her hair, "I like this look—all these curls."

"It's called not having a hair dryer."

Grissom's fingers began a downward game of circles on her skin. She forgot her hair as his hand moved and found that secret place of pleasure. He took his time, slowly, deliberately stroking her, applying gentle pressure until he felt her response. He smiled; she groaned and reached for his face…

"I'm hungry." She giggled as she said the words.


	9. Chapter 9

**A Few Days of Change Chapter 9**

He lay exhausted across the bed in a tangle of sheets and pillows, arms and legs. "I don't think I can move." His hand found her. "I have strength to move my hand. We might try room service."

She rolled to his side. "Food—I have food in my tote. Sister Marie packed us food—said she knew we would need to eat."

"A nun who knows sex requires food—I have to think about that one."

Sara nudged him with an elbow. "I think that's why they do so much praying."

She found the small box given to her by the nun. "Sandwiches," she placed two wrapped thick-bread sandwiches on his chest. "Drinks," this went next to the sandwiches and he shivered at its cold touch. "And, the best for last, two slices of pie."

With full stomachs, the two never left the room and in a few hours, both were asleep as if they had never missed a night in the secure coziness of sleeping in the same bed. For the first time in a dozen or more nights at this place, Grissom did not complain about the motel's small bed.

…They ate lunch at the farm house with enough food to feed a dozen more visitors. Grissom sat at one end of the table and talked to the gardeners. He had helped with a beneficial insect habitat and other projects around the farm since his initial introduction. He had seen the bee hives at the edge of the orchard and listened as two sisters explained the barter system. The bees lived on the farm, but were owned by someone else who traded honey for fruit. No evidence of colony collapse had occurred in these hives.

Sara and her mother ate a few bites at lunch; both nervous about the trip they were taking. Neither had visited the cemetery in years, trying to put the nightmare of one night in perspective. Neither had ever been able to do more than try to forget, and, of course, they never forgot.

Grissom drove. Sara gave quiet directions from a map. Laura sat in the back seat, saying a few words but never joining in conversation. As they got near the cemetery, both women became silent. At the gate, Grissom stopped to ask for directions. The cemetery was massive and he had to return to the car to ask for a date.

Laura Sidle said, "It's the Catholic part." She gave a date.

With specific directions, and he needed them to navigate the maze of narrow roads weaving around the graves, he drove to the area marked on the map. Sara and Laura stepped from the car, anxious and tense, twisting their hands together, as they walked several paces apart.

Grissom found it hard to watch the two women; the woman he loved and a woman destroyed by a culminating act after years of abuse. He stepped between them, taking Laura's hand, and wrapping an arm around Sara. They might want to be alone, they might wish he remained at the car, but until one said the words, he was determined to be with them. Sara's breathing was shallow and ragged; Laura did not appear to be breathing at all.

Sara found the marker—the simple rectangle given to mark the final rest of veterans.

They stood, silently, for several minutes. Sara said, "I never knew he was in Vietnam."

Laura Sidle found her voice; a voice that had been hushed so long ago that her daughter had never heard the story she began to tell. "Your father was a good man, Sara. We were so young and in love. We laughed and loved our two kids—your brother was born while your dad was in Vietnam. After he returned, he had changed. He never talked about it, but he would have very bad dreams, go for days without sleep, but we managed." She kneeled and brushed the surface of the stone.

When she turned to the next marker, smaller and slightly different, Grissom caught his breath. The same name etched into the granite hit his eyes with sudden realization—Sara's brother was buried beside his father. Grissom knew there had been an accidental death; he had not realized it occurred a few weeks prior to the death of their father.

Laura's hand brushed the second tombstone. "Things happened. His temper and alcohol made him a different man. I tried to keep you and your brother from most of it. I know he scared you." Sara moved to her mother's side and sat beside her. Laura knitted her hands together in a tense knot. "The day your brother died—do you remember anything? You were so young and we were so devastated by all of it. I think we forgot all about you for a while." She looked at Sara. "I'm so sorry."

Sara's hand caressed her mother's shoulder.

"We got through the funeral—the priest did everything—and back home. Your father started drinking. He blamed me for your brother." One hand wiped her eyes and went back into her lap. "It was an accident—he ran out into the street after a ball—just a second and he would have been fine! Instead, he was dead. And what we were trying to hold together was gone." She was quiet.

Grissom knelt behind Sara and held her. She leaned against him, seeking warmth and strength as she watched her mother.

Laura inhaled air and continued speaking. "Six weeks we managed. The drinking got worse. At first, everyone excused his appearance, his drunken state, his anger. I had gotten use to his words and his punches and slaps over the years. But he got worse, broke my arm pushing me out the door one night. Then, on that last night, he threw you into a closet and made me a punching bag. I woke up to see him pulling you out of the closet and it nearly killed me to see you so frightened." Her hand came to Sara's face and she gently wiped tears from her cheeks.

"It must have been horrific—I don't remember what happened—only what I was told later. I did not stop with one, Sara." Her head shook and she glanced at Grissom. "I stabbed him over twenty times—probably would have continued if your screams had not brought the neighbors who pulled me away. The police came; they took you away and all I heard was screams." She stopped to breathe again and minutes passed before she spoke. "Of course, the screaming was coming from me. I had lost my son, my husband, and my daughter all in a few weeks."

The sad eyes that met Grissom's brimmed with tears as she continued. "That's the story, Gil. I don't know how my daughter survived. She was practically catatonic at her father's funeral—we both were. Today is the first time I've returned to this grave." Her hand reached out to one marker then the other. "I guess it's a step we've taken."

Sara's hand touched her brother's name and she traced it with one finger. "I don't remember much. It's funny how the mind has its filters. If anyone had asked me, I would have said my brother died years before my father. I remember your broken arm. I remember the closet and the social worker who took me away."

_A/N: A few more chapters of this one, 3 or 4 more chapters. Keep reading BUT leave us a little note! We see numbers of readers, but **what do you think??** Thanks!!_


	10. Chapter 10

**A Few Days of Change Chapter 10**

Grissom's arm circled Sara and he drew her to him. He wiped tears as more followed. There were no sobs or hiccups or any sounds, just sheets of tears, filling her eyes and raining down her face. Her mother sat less than a foot away, overwhelmed by her own statements, beaten, psychologically as she had once been physically abused, yet stoic. Her hands rested in her lap; her tears had dried long ago in some forgotten room.

"I only wanted to protect you, Sara. Every day I've wanted your forgiveness." She turned to look at her daughter. "Don't cry. It's done. There is nothing I can do to make this go away."

The two women looked at each other; Grissom was never certain who reached out, but their hands met and one clasped the other. Their hands stayed together in a small, anguished, yet poignant grasp; not for the first time, he noticed how similar their hands appeared—delicate with long fingers.

Sara said, "I remember the rain."

Laura's mouth almost smiled. "That was your brother's service. You wore white socks—I soaked them for days to get the mud out."

"I had it mixed up—I thought the rain was…"

The older woman moved to face Sara, keeping hands together, touching Grissom with her free hand, and she began a heartbreaking narrative of a dead son and brother. A simple neighborhood ballgame, like boys play everywhere, sent a ball into the street. Sara's brother ran after it—old enough to know to look for traffic—a young teenager—hit by a truck, thrown into a crumpled heap, instantly dead. The funeral service was filled with young men and women, teenagers, who could not believe a friend was gone. A family struggled to go on with living, but the sad, depressing household closed and shut out neighbors and friends who came. There were secrets to hide. Laura said, "There were no shelters for women and children, no one talked about abuse or depression or nightmares."

She passed a shaking hand across her face. "I've found a peaceful life with the sisters. I don't think much; I work and at night I'm exhausted enough to sleep." Both hands covered Sara's. "I don't want you to have this kind of life. You are smart; you are good. You deserve happiness, to have someone love you."

In all the confessions, the crime scenes, the dreadful and horrid deaths Grissom had seen, the interaction between mother and daughter, the sorrowful telling of events that had shaped their lives, was one of his most heartbreaking encounters. That it involved the woman he loved, seeing her and her mother peeling away years of hidden fears, shook his own psyche. He also realized recovery, an attempt to retrieve what had been taken away, destroyed in a child and her mother, would require professional treatment—not a few weeks of rest and sleep. Grissom said nothing as Sara wept against his shirt. He kept his arms gently around her. He knew her deeply private need to be acknowledged—loved by her mother. She never voice this desire, but he knew it

Minutes passed and the afternoon shadows grew longer before someone stood—Sara helped her mother and, finally, the two women shared an embrace, one of support and hesitant acceptance. Sara whispered, "There is nothing to forgive, Mom." Walking to the car, the two women's arms encircled the other; Grissom kept his hand on Sara's back. Taking longer than needed, he walked around the car, pretended to check his shoes for dirt, touched his cell phone in an unexpected reaction to getting both women back to the car; he did not know what to do next.

Somehow, Grissom got back to the highway and managed to elicit a subdued response from Sara and Laura when he asked about eating. He chose a chain restaurant, ended up ordering food and drinks for everyone, and watched as they pushed food around the plate. The women were simply drained of energy. When he placed bread in Sara's hand, she finally spoke, and almost smiled.

"I can eat, Gil."

He passed another slice of bread to her mother. She also gave him a slight smile. "I'm fine," said Laura. Grissom looked at Sara when he heard her mother.

Sara's tentative smile changed into a lopsided grin. Those were her words spoken by her mother. "I need to get to know my mother a little better. Will you be okay with that?"

He nodded. "I want you happy, Sara."

…Sara wore nothing but a towel as she stepped out of the shower. They—no she—had been so exhausted after the cemetery trip that she and her mother had slept while Grissom drove back to the farm. Sara's mother left them, insisting she was "fine" even though fatigue showed in her face. She was home, she said, and she could rest. Plans were made for Sara to return to the farm and Grissom would fly back to Vegas the next day.

Grissom sat propped on the bed, a stack of papers in his hands, when she entered the bedroom. He dropped the papers. "You okay?"

"Yeah, I'm fine—really." She slipped into the bed with him.

"It's been a rough day, honey."

She lay beside him with wet hair and damp legs, and said, "I love you."

He grinned. "I like to hear that—we'll be fine. You and your mother have a lot of catching up to do. Get to know her." He crooked an arm behind his head. "Seriously, you two should find a—a good professional—a counselor." He did not say psychiatrist, but she knew what he meant. Sister Deborah had already made the same suggestion.

Sara pulled him down beside her and they lay quietly, listening to the other's breathing and the steady beat of hearts. Grissom's hand drew her against him, his fingers pressing against her damp hair.

She closed her eyes and placed her mouth against the hollow of his throat, tasting the warmth and sweetness of his skin against her tongue. She unfastened each button and kissed the skin beneath it. She touched his belly just above his belt with her tongue and smiled when he shivered.

"Wait," he said as he removed his shirt and pushed his pants off. He found the edge of the towel and removed it from her body. His hands found the indentation of Sara's waist then let his eyes move to her breasts, her thighs, and back to her face.

"You are beautiful, Sara. I don't tell you enough."

Sara responded by kissing his shoulder, his neck, touching his ear with her fingertip. They made love as a full moon traveled across the night sky pulling them together as it does the tide sweeping gently onto the seashore. He would smile, touch her face, kiss her lips and nose, placing in deep memory the moments that passed to quickly.

Later, Sara would remember this night as a conversation, not of words, but of an eloquent ending to a dream. She felt very protective of this man and when he began to breathe in the way of sleep, she listened, feeling content, alive, for the first time in months.


	11. Chapter 11

**A Few Days of Change Chapter 11**

…Peaceful, calm days pass much faster than those of turmoil and chaos with one sunny day becoming another and a week passes into a month. Sara stayed at the farm. She worked in the garden, she heated milk for cheese, she helped in the barn, she cut down a dead tree, and planted others. One day, standing in the orchard, surrounded by women and pruned tree limbs, wiping sweat from her eyes, she realized her mother was right. Physical work overcame your thoughts in a good way. There was little time to think about what might have been. There was no time to contemplate what could have happened when using a saw or heating milk to a precise temperature. Here, there were no victims or survivors or hopeless causes.

During evening vespers and afternoon prayers, Sara did her own thing. She found the local library and read magazines and books, sometimes scientific ones, others on gardening and plants and farm animals, an occasional best-seller. She didn't pray as the community members did. She was respectful and quiet and worked more than anyone and the women liked their young visitor.

She talked to Grissom every night, before she slept and before he went to work. She promised to visit soon; he said he would come to her. Her mother resisted professional counseling.

"Sara, I'm been talked to so much in my life—I know I've heard it all." The two women sat in the tree swing one afternoon a week after the cemetery visit. "You go—I'll go with you if you want, but down deep—I can't change, Sara."

Sara nodded. "It's okay. I understand. For myself, I think I'll go see the one Sister Deborah knows. I know I'm depressed; I know I'm burned out—I need…" She laughed. "I need a job!" Her mother started to speak, but Sara's upraised hand stopped her. "I can't stay here, Mom. Not forever." Sara leaned close to her mother's ear. "I like sleeping with Grissom too much to live here."

The quiet laugh coming from her mother made Sara laugh. She made an appointment with the psychiatrist and went alone to talk about her life.

Six weeks after leaving Las Vegas, Sara arrived in mid-morning with sunlight streaming in all the windows, the Strip gleaming like jeweled royalty as the surrounding landscape bowed to the greatness of the gambling mecca. Not for the first time, Sara was amazed that she had remained in Vegas for as long as she did. The oppressive heat, the constant uproar of a changing population, the lack of natural vegetation—the crime—she could not forget the ever increasing disregard for human life in this place where so much was fake that wrongdoing was actually advertised as a fun pursuit.

Of course, one person had kept her in this city. Grissom met her as soon as she walked off the airplane; an event rare enough to cause the gambler passengers to turn heads in their direction. He could not keep his hands from touching her, smiling and saying how great it was to have her back home. She was beautiful, he thought. Rested, hair cut short and curling around her face, her bright smile came quickly to her face, she looked well—he said so.

"I am." She wrapped an arm around him. "And I have luggage—presents for everyone, even Hank."

"Presents? Everyone?" Grissom was confused.

"Greg, Nick, Warrick, Jim, even Catherine. I emailed everyone I was coming today."

Another surprise, he thought. No one had mentioned it to him.

"And we are meeting after shift tomorrow—at your place." She stopped walking when he did. "Our place. I'm cooking." She laughed. "It will be fun. I need a social life, so says my therapist—what better way than to cook for the people I love most."

Grissom grinned. He had actually thought twenty-four hours alone with Sara would meet his needs. What could he do, he thought. "That's good, that's good." They walked again. "Presents?"

"Yep. Sort of an apology for leaving like I did."

Her luggage was huge, two big boxes, taped securely and labeled "perishables". He was puzzled.

…Grissom had taken a day off and no one dared to call him. He had cleaned for hours; even Hank was spick and span—a condition that would last until his first trip outside. Food was in the refrigerator and now she was telling him she was going to cook for the others.

But first, she took care of him. Sara hugged the dog, reaching into her tote to bring a chewy treat out and laughing as he left her attentions for the smell and taste of something that smelled eatable. She turned to Grissom.

"Dog taken care of—now it's your turn." She took his hand, running with him following into the bedroom. "I've dreamed of this," she said as she kicked the door closed.

Their arms found each other and they tumbled into the bed—the big bed they had purchased when they moved in—their bed, she thought. Unhurriedly, she removed his shirt, telling him to slow down; they had plenty of time, the rest of the day, the entire night, to give and take pleasure in the other. Bit by bit, little by little, every sensitive place, every responsive, vulnerable nerve in his body responded to her touch. The touch of her warm fingers was the kiss of a butterfly against his skin. She turned her face to him and lifted her eyelids and he saw her eyes.

He was lost in twin pools of midnight darkness lit by some internal fire, a promise of possibilities that waited. She drew him to her, over some threshold of warm fluid; water, he always thought of water when he was with her like this. She stretched before him, waiting, moving as a calm sea between tides.

"Come with me," she said, softly.

_A/N: There are one or two more chapters of this story (sorry for short notice!!) Enjoy--thanks for all your reviews and comments!_


	12. Chapter 12

**A Few Days of Change Chapter 12**

They slept through the afternoon, waking within minutes of each other and smiling, kissing again and again; he remarked that one half of the bed was untouched. She reached over and scrambled the covers and laughed. From the laugh, passion aroused once again and their second time was the stormy passion of long days and nights of separation, a flash fire of feelings, and, when concluded, both were sweaty and drained.

"I'm hungry," said Sara as the two of them separated a few inches for air.

"Your dog needs walking."

"We have to cook."

"We have to buy food." Grissom used the corner of the sheet to wipe his face.

…They did eat, walk the dog, bought groceries for a crowd, and got it all finished in time for more sleep, which was a reason for more kisses, more intimate touches, and more cuddles, more everything, underneath the covers on the previously untouched side of the bed. This time, sapped energy and darkness put both lovers to sleep for hours, moving with each other, wrapping arms around the other, sleeping together in that welcome togetherness their bodies missed with absence.

The dark bedroom kept them from waking until the dog landed on the bed nudging Grissom into a disturbed wake-up. Sara followed him out of bed.

"I'll only be out a few minutes," he said.

"Cheater—you know Hank enjoys a long walk in the morning."

Grissom's chuckle and kiss would have easily turned into more if she had not pushed man and dog out the door.

She said, "I'll make coffee—we have company coming."

Company did arrive, in a group, stumbling in the door and over each other in their efforts to be the first to hug Sara, to see her smile and hear her laugh, to hear about her life—they knew she had been on a farm with her mother. When she brought out presents, the conversations reached a crescendo of laughing and exclamations—bottles of wine, caps and shirts for the men, a small purse for Catherine, and packages of cheese marked by "made by Sara" in ink.

"You didn't!" "Really make cheese?" "Sara, the cheesemaker!"

"I did—at the farm. Of course, I had lots of help, but we made this cheese!" Her smile was all they needed for another round of excited talk.

They ate food she had prepared—muffins and bread brought from the farm, an egg and cheese casserole, cooked fruits—and more comments about how good everything tasted. No one mentioned her previous lack of cooking skills—more a joke than truth, but one the entire group participated in.

Grissom's presence was secondary this morning. He was the chef's assistant, the clean up guy and coffee maker. The chatter never ceased as Sara was caught up on everything they had done in six weeks. They were careful to lighten up the serious and hideous crimes, the unspeakable events of the dead, because they knew, or had figured out together, the burn-out breakdown of their friend. Today, they welcomed back the old, laughing Sara.

Warrick brought a new camera and took dozens of photos, and while they were outside, he set the timer and took several of the group, arms around each other, making goofy faces at the flashing light.

None mentioned or questioned her future. Greg knew her well enough to know she would not return. Nick and Warrick kept hope going that she would. Brass knew his friend Grissom would need to make some decisions in the future, but today, he kept those thoughts to himself. Catherine's thoughts about Sara remained her own. This morning as they ate and talked and laughed, they found dozens of other things to say. By noon, they left as they came, all together, laughing and interrupting each other, hugging Sara, saying "See you soon."

Sara had promised Grissom three days and nights. On her third night, she tried to explain the need to return to the farm. It was not because of him—saying similar words she had written and spoken to him six weeks ago. He understood, he said. He knew she was better, nearly her old self. In quick moments, he saw a shadow across her face, a perplexed look, or bewildered glance.

"Will you tell me about your therapy?" He asked as they lay together on the sofa. It fit them; he would stretch out and Sara would slip her body between his and the sofa. He called this "Our cocoon." He had missed this swathed wrap up in the weeks before she left.

"You know I'm better—my mom went with me twice. We've talked—no, I've talked and she listened. She doesn't say much. But I think I understand more, I can live with my history." She raised her head to look at him. "Gil, you know I love you." She waited for his affirmation.

His hand touched her hair. "Sara, you know I do. You are the only woman I've ever—loved." He pulled her to him. "What's wrong?"

"I can't stay."

"I know, honey, I know."

"I mean, here. I don't think I can come back here—to Vegas." Her words choked as tears filled her eyes. "I—I want to be with you but I can't live here."

He was surprised at her words, but quickly recovered. "Shh—it's okay. Things will work out. We will be fine." He was unsure what this meant, what had made her say this.

Her hand wiped her eyes. "It's what I have to work out. I have six more weeks of leave but I can resign now. I know I can not go back to the lab. I hate for you to be short-handed because of me."

Grissom did not want her to resign—not yet; he talked her into waiting, knowing, hoping she would change her mind.

_A/N: Thanks for reading and your review. Tomorrow we will post the last chapter (might be two chapters), and there's a little bit of happiness/romance before the end! _


	13. Chapter 13

**A Few Days of Change Chapter 13**

…As weeks passed, Grissom returned to the farm; he went to a therapy session with Sara. He heard the physician speak of post-traumatic stress syndrome, of removing the patient from the trauma-inducing environment, of a career change. When they left, he knew Sara would not return to the lab; he held out hope that she would return to Las Vegas, to the home they had made, to him.

Instead, she took him to an industrial area, into an outlying warehouse, and introduced him to an aquatic researcher. "He's willing to hire me as an assistant studying squid."

The rest of the afternoon was spent with the small group who explained their work on an invasive species of squid showing up in California waters. The job was part-time, requiring lab skills for specific work and they wanted someone who could work without supervision. Sara wanted to take the job; she wanted his approval and she was excited.

With his agreement, as if he had a choice, she took the job and officially resigned her CSI position. In his mind, it was a step in the direction back home. The job gave her an opportunity to learn about a subject she had never studied completely different from her previous experience. The women at the community farm were delighted that Sara could stay with them while she ventured into a different kind of work.

Sometimes, Grissom felt he had regressed ten years, flying to San Francisco or Oakland on his off days, spending a night or two with Sara before returning to Vegas. In turn, she would spend two or three days with him before realizing she had to leave; her sense of place was no longer the house in Las Vegas, but she never referred to the farm as "home."

During every visit she asked him to take a vacation—a real vacation, going somewhere together for a week or two. He begged off. He wanted to go, he said, but work, so many cases, and complex problems. Warrick's spiral and the sheriff's demands claimed his time.

"We will go soon," he promised. "Where should we go? The rain forest, the mountains?" he asked.

Sara said, "A bed and breakfast in Sonoma—a little inn along the coast."

The next week, she picked him up at the airport. His smile was bigger than usual and when he asked to drive, she had no reason to suspect a motive until he headed in the wrong direction.

"What's going on?" She asked.

His eyebrow rose slightly. "It's not for a week, but a couple of days. Remember that little motel by the ocean? Stinson Beach—I knew I was in love that day."

Sara was astonished into silence. She tried to say something but her smile stopped her voice. Finally, she said, "I—I'm not prepared. I have nothing. I reserved our room at the regular place."

Grissom took her hand, kissed it and smiled. "I took care of all that. I brought you some clothes from home. I called your mother and the motel. We have two nights—the best accommodations available—where we started."

"This—this is…" She searched for the right word. "Unexpected." Sara was smiling. "It was so accidental, I think." She stretched to kiss him as he drove. "I was kinda—forward that day." He heard her giggle. It was the same sound Grissom remembered from the first day they had driven out of San Francisco.

He turned as highway signs provided direction, both pointing to changes in route. They stopped and walked to the top of Mt. Tam.

"You kissed me here." Sara said as they turned full circle seeing the San Francisco skyline and clouds beyond. He kissed her again.

He drove slowly as the road twisted and turned its way to the beach below. Cliffs dropped sharply to the sea on one side while rock walls rose upward on the other. They could see the coastline for miles at each turn.

"I thought you were taking me to the end of the earth that day." He glanced at her, saying, "but it was only the beginning."

They were amazed at how little the beachside town had changed. The motel with its nine or ten rooms appeared to be set in a time-warp, freshly painted in shades of blue, blooming flowers growing from pots and covering doorways.

Grissom had asked for the best room which was actually a cottage—a kitchen, a large shiny clean bathroom, and a big bed. He stood at the door and watched as Sara explored; she had done the same thing ten years ago.

"Happy?" he asked.

She stood in the middle of the room, next to a bed covered in white. "Yes."


	14. Chapter 14

_**A/N:** Sorry to post the last two chapters late in the day! Thanks for reading. Hope this last chapter makes up for the angst! Remember to read the ending of "A Few Days at a Time" for our happy ending! _

**A Few Days of Change Chapter 14**

The smell of jasmine from outside filled the room. Tiny pink flowers had fallen across Sara's shoulders when she walked under the archway near the door of the cottage. Grissom's vision centered on the woman standing before him. He forgot work, the unsolved cases, the perplexities of county politics, the personal problems of Warrick as he found an interval of peace and calm with Sara.

"God in heaven, Sara, I do love you."

His words surprised her as much as this unexpected trip. In a change from their first visit to this beach, and almost a decade as a monogamous couple, they had no need to rush and tumble into lovemaking as they had done ten years before. Grissom pulled her clothes from his bag, impressing Sara that he remembered all the necessities as well as a couple of fun items.

Seeing her face, he said, "I packed what I wanted to see." He held up a two piece swim suit and a pair of panties. She giggled.

"Give me those." She took the pink panties and disappeared into the bathroom.

He heard the shower and stepped into the small courtyard. It was private, totally closed from other windows. He stretched out on a chaise lounge. Bougainvillea covered a trellis providing shade for his chair. He had forgotten how pretty this little place had been that day the two of them had arrived, walked along the beach, and, for the first time in his life, he rented a room for a few hours to be with a woman.

Grissom knew she was at his side before he opened his eyes or she said a word. He would know he was in her presence for the rest of his life. He scooted over as he made a sound at seeing what she wore—almost nothing.

"You are entirely overdressed, Gilbert." Her words were edged with laughter and seduction.

His fingers traced the edges of the pink fabric. "I remember that crazy bra you wore."

Sara's quiet laugh reached his ears. "So many things and you remember my bra!" She pulled his shirt over his head and threw it aside; sitting across his legs, she felt his hands against her body, the warmth of his bare chest as he pulled her to him.

In the dappled shade with the sound of surf reaching their ears, Grissom lost his clothes and made love to Sara. Slowly, purposeful, unhurried passion that progressed from the tight fit of the lounge chair to the pristine white bed in bedroom. The lovers' emotions ranged from dizzying delight in surprising each other to amusement and contentment lying in bed in each other arms.

Grissom said, "I think I'm getting to old for this much activity."

Sara laughed against his shoulder. "I told you to let me walk."

"I was afraid you might disappear."

His hands touched her again, seeking an intimate spot that brought sensual groans from deep within her feminine soul. He continued this erotic play until her eyes became orbs of sparkling coal and her body arched to meet his. She was the ocean, warm, moving, filled with life-giving liquids, graceful and adaptable.

Their activities of the next two days and nights would remain etched into their minds, as well as their hearts, for weeks to come. Sara would come to believe that divine provenance or the lining up of the stars set the pleasure, the passion, and satisfying union of body and spirit into the sunny days and warm, moonlight nights they shared.

They walked along the beach, waded in the ocean, watched sandpipers, shearwaters and swallows fly across the sky or scatter across the sand. They ate lunch and dinner at the restaurant, ordered room service for breakfast, and, on the second day, remained in their room and the courtyard until maid service reluctantly ran them out.

Grissom hated to leave. Sara sensed his unwillingness. "We can come back." She massaged his back and neck. "We won't wait so long."

They were packed to leave, but he pulled her onto the bed. "I know you love the ocean. I've never told you this, but every time we make love, I think of the ocean—something imprinted in my brain, I guess, at this place."

Sara smiled, somewhat puzzled by his words. "I do love the ocean, Gil." He knew the squid researchers wanted her to go out with them on their excursions to collect specimens; so far, she had refused. She did not like the process of gathering or catching the squid.

Grissom kissed her. He knew the conflict she was having as she lived in one place and he another. They would work it out, somehow, some way. She loved him regardless of his quirks and faults and misgivings. She made him laugh and know that all was well in their world.

…Sara heard a phone ringing in her dream. She no longer had nightmares of searching, or reaching out to the unknown or dreams of drowning or pain. She slept all night, rarely waking until the sun was up and the noise of movement outside her room woke her. She was strong; she was thinking and working with the researchers several days a week.

Someone knocked on the door and she felt the air move as it opened. Her eyes opened to see her mother and Sister Deborah.

"Sister, Mom. What's going on?" She shook back covers and reached for shoes; panic hit her stomach. "Grissom?"

"No, no. You've had a call from Captain Brass—its Warrick." Her mother said as she sat beside her.

Her mother gave her the sad news. Sara left within an hour. Warrick was dead…

_They buried Warrick Brown and found his killer. Both events made horrendous and unforgettable wounds in their lives. For days, Grissom and Sara, Catherine and Brass, Nick and Greg walked in a dream state knowing a sudden sound, the sun rising, a phone call would wake them from this nightmare. But it was no nightmare. _

_Sara stayed in Las Vegas trying to convince herself she could live here; she loved Grissom and he loved her. Yet she could not sleep, she could not eat. She had to leave. And she tried to explain—Grissom said he understood; he did not, but he said it just the same. He needed her here, waiting for him, loving him, holding him when he could not sleep. _

_Almost by accident, Greg called about an old case, an old friend. She plunged back into the darkness of lies and ghosts, betrayal and bitterness. She could not stay. Leaving almost killed her—not in the physical way, but in the hopelessness of their relationship. Days passed as she thought about Grissom's last words to her. She returned to work with the researchers. She left messages and emailed Grissom and when they talked she heard the depression and anguish in his voice, but he would not leave Las Vegas. _

"_We need a break, Gil. I want to see the ocean from a ship. We can volunteer for research studies on turtles or whales or coral. Please come." _

_Weeks she waited. It was her mother who, after seeing signs of depression slip back into her daughter's face, said "Go. He loves you. He'll be there when you return." _

_Until the last minute, even when the tug pushed the ship out of the harbor, Sara watched, hoping, even saying a little prayer to God, for Grissom to come. _

_A month later, standing in her small room, after overcoming days of seasickness, and hoping to put her feet on solid ground in a few hours, Sara sent a short video message by email to an address in Las Vegas. _

A/N: For our "real" ending, a happier ending, read "A Few Days at a Time" again.


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